


A Rose Blooms

by elffyness



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:29:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22984237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elffyness/pseuds/elffyness
Summary: Blackwall finds an unwelcome reminder of his past that follows him deep into the night. As a storm rages and he finds his thoughts inescapable, he turns to the tavern in search of the drink and finds the Inquisitor, several bottles deep in sorrow already. A short story about fear, hope, and bravery.A/N: I intended this to be more of a friendship thing between Blackwall and the Inquisitor but it kind of reads romantically haha so I'll leave it up to interpretation. Blackwall's loyalty has always been romantic no matter the situation anyways. :)tumblr: @elffyness
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Lavellan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	A Rose Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, hope you enjoy this little short story! I wrote it one sitting for fun and practice as you do, and because I am on a Blackwall high haha. He is so soft and tough like a teddy bear with armor uwu. If you're on tumblr give me a follow @yourdalishinquisitorialness! I post memes and art and basically everything dragon age haha. I'll be happy to follow you back as well :)) Enjoy ~!

Blackwall usually did his best to avoid Skyhold's tavern. The voices of its occupants rang loudly within Skyhold’s walls, especially on chilling nights where they would be forced to choose between hunkering down alone in their poorly insulated rooms or joining the rest of the inquisition at the Herald’s Rest, where the fire was always blazing and alcohol poured down from every angle. For most folks, the decision was simple enough, and Blackwall understood it. Warmth wasn’t a luxury easy to come by in the mountains, but he would endure a few shivers in exchange for some peace and quiet. The rise of the stars in the tapestry of the navy sky tempted reflection in his mind, and as such he preferred isolation, save for the company of his mistakes.

Tonight was one of the aforementioned chilly nights, where winds gusting in from the Frostbacks bit at your bones like a hungry stray dog, craving the taste of meat. Crashes and laughter bellowed from across the courtyard, pommeling their way into the barn loft he had been skulking in since their arrival at Skyhold. The noise knocked at his ears, threatening to break his concentration on the small book in his hands, yet he remained adamant to his mission. He had been flicking through the pages of a children’s book he ‘found’ in the mage’s library. Well, maybe ‘found’ was being generous; Stolen was more like it. Blackwall had spotted it by chance, finding it stuffed underneath the wobbly stool Dorian used to support about a million other tomes and magical knick-knacks he could not begin to understand. It was plain luck that the Tevinter had not been around that afternoon (probably off teasing the Commander for his paramour with the Inquisitor) and caught sight of it.

 _Le Petit Prince_ rested in his gloved hands now, a nostalgic reminder of a life lost long ago to pride and stubborn fantasy. He wondered if it was a cruel prank of the Maker that he should happen upon his favorite childhood story, the one he begged his mother to read to him every night, that sent him to Orlais in search of his own ‘rose’ when he had squandered his winnings away. Blackwall hadn’t found his rose in Orlais, though. All that had waited for him in Orlais was horror and stupid mistakes that would result in tragedy.

The crash of broken glass broke his concentration and he sighed wearily in response. It seemed the tavern was rowdier than usual tonight, likely due to the building storm. Static in the air tickled the hair on his beard, causing him to cast his eyes upwards for any stray holes in the roof. It would be best to procure buckets now, lest he wake up to the stench of molding wood. Blackwall rose from his wooden chair and looked at the book in his hands. He didn’t quite want to return it, yet, the sight of it stirred a feeling akin to burning nausea in his gut so strong he was worried he might vomit on the spot. Even now its bent cover stared at him with disappointment likened only to the look his mother gave him when he had returned from the tourney, prideful and victorious when he announced he would be leaving home permanently. Guiltily, he opened the chest he had salvaged from Haven and buried it under several layers of clothing and armor. 

* * *

The candle on his bed stand waned against the wind as the storm raged outside. Though it stood proudly, the barn’s wooden support could only provide so much protection and insulation and the tempest roaring against its exterior was stretching the beams to their limits. Beneath his makeshift room where Blackwall lay, the mounts stirred noisily in response to the storm, along with the resident Horsemaster’s hushes and coos. 

While the weather had taken over the sounds of the night, Blackwall noted that the noise from the Herald’s Rest had died down to silence. An hour had passed since he last heard anything living other than his roommates downstairs (Dennet and the mounts), and the night stretched as thin as the veil. He knew he should’ve been asleep by now.

Well, Maker, he should’ve been asleep hours ago. His thoughts chased themselves round and round like silly, fearful nugs. As they had been for the past three hours, his eyes found themselves drowsily aimed at his trunk, where he could see the voices of his past rattling its locks and shaking it violently. With a blink, it was still once again, but the feelings inspiring damp perspiration on his forehead in near freezing temperatures lingered threateningly. With a gulp he rose from his blankets, pulling his mud-caked boots over his feet.

The isolation he so often desired at these hours had become deafening, and the various animals below could not be considered helpful company at the moment. Slipping on his coat and bracing himself against the barn door, Blackwall entered into the hungry night. At times like these, only one remedy can numb the phantom pains from the scars of the past, and it was waiting for him across the courtyard in a dull mug. 

* * *

The air inside the tavern wasn’t as thick as it normally was. Body heat had left with the numerous patrons a while ago, yet the tang of sweat remained heavily in the air. As muggy as it was, it was far preferable to the ravenous winds of storm Blackwall had just escaped. An orange glow bathed the tavern, the fireplace dim with its glowing embers barely encouraging a flame. The lack of bodies in the building was refreshing, a stark difference to even the early morning. It was not empty yet, though, as evidenced by the few sods knocked out over tables, mugs clutched loosely in their hands. The only time Blackwall could recall the tavern being any emptier was when they had first arrived at the desolate fortress, and no bartender had yet set up shop.

He scuffed his boots on the doormat, despite the many tracks on the floor that evidenced how many others did not take the time to do so themselves. Tiredly, he made his way towards the dwarf who tended the establishment, who had taken to carving something in the wood of the bar counter. Cabot almost entirely ignored him, his only acknowledgment consisting of a grunt and the flick of his eyes. The stool creaked beneath Blackwall’s weight as Cabot reached under the counter and unceremoniously slid an empty mug towards him. He eyed it with confusion. Usually, these mugs came with something inside of them, right? Or had he once and for all finally lost his mind from the howling demons inside him?

“I think you may have forgotten the actual alcohol part of this drink,” Blackwall uttered mirthlessly in Cabot’s direction, turning the mug upside down for effect. The dwarf simply grunted, focused on whatever it was he was carving into the worn sticky counter. 

“I figured you could share with your friend,” he muttered, and only then did Blackwall become aware of the slumped figure at the other end of the bar. 

The Inquisitor sat upon a bar stool, her head pillowed in her arms, and her hand tipping a mug of ale on its edge back and forth on the counter. Her long elven ears were tipped red with warmth, the glow spreading evenly on her cheeks. Normally alert brown eyes shone with the dull glaze only alcohol could encourage, and her usual high and tight ponytail sagged as wisps of baby hairs fell around her face. He could never have thought this was the woman who greeted him every day with a sweet smile and stolen chocolates.

Blackwall’s heart twisted: in all of his employment under the Inquisition, Lavellan had never looked so broken. She was their beacon, their herald (even if she did not see it herself), and she wielded her influence with optimism and power every single day. Yet here, under the blanket of the storm, in the quiet of the empty bar, she looked as if she were just a girl. His troubles sank away quickly, into the deep recesses of his mind as he weakly stood from his stool. Pleading his hand to be firm, he gently placed a palm on her back, rousing her from her trance-like concentration on the mug. 

“Hello, Blackwall, fancy meeting you here,” she greeted without looking, her voice managing to be as clear and bright as sunshine even as her mind swam with the stupors of alcohol. His own weary eyes looked over her frame as he pulled a barstool up next to her. Weakly, he forced a smile to his lips.

“Hello Inquisitor, fine night isn’t it?” he joked demurely in kind, drawing a dry and disparate chuckle from Lavellan. She did not respond and the two of them sat in silence, save for the scratching coming from Cabot. Blackwall peered at his work now, noticing he was marking the latest strike in a series of tallies. _Tallies, eh?_ Cabot felt his dark eyes studying his work and paused in the strokes. Meeting his eyes, the bartender lifted the crude dagger, pointing it at the inquisitor, who had taken to grabbing at the air as she reached for another bottle behind the counter.

“This is how many nights she’s been here,” he explained, letting the answer hang in the air before pointing the dagger at the nearest column. “This is how many drinks she’s had over the course of her ‘visits.’” Blackwall’s face paled, not even bothering to count how many ticks covered the column. Like regretted tattoos, the tallies crawled up the pillar, taller than the dwarf himself, with about 10 ticks to each row. Blackwall’s brows furrowed, as he gently watched the woman who he fought with every day on the battlefield, who inspired confidence and loyalty in the hearts of many, least of all himself.

Had the Inquisitor been aching so badly this whole time? Every day, she had risen with the weight of the world on her shoulders, as it threatened to crush her under it. Messengers from every kingdom in Thedas with requests for every favor on the Maker’s good green world… An army of faithful clamoring for her attention, hanging on to every word she said, and where was she underneath all this? Suddenly his problems paled in comparison to this limp leaf of a woman who currently nursed a bottle of alcohol larger than her head. 

“Lavellan, how many drinks have you had tonight?” He said softly, sympathy undercutting his words. She mumbled her answer, coming out in a series of _mmum m m phs_.

Blackwall sighed, frustration welling up inside of him as he turned towards Cabot.

“Why did you not inform us of the Inquisitor’s distress Cabot? I’m sure the Commander would’ve liked to hear about it,” He asked in an accusatory voice, to which the snippy dwarf sneered and stabbed his dagger into the wood. 

“I don’t rat on people whose problems drive them to the drink. _I’ve_ got problems, _you’ve_ got problems, we’ve _all_ got problems. If I went around trying to get aid for every human, dwarf, and elf in Skyhold who had one too many and a reason to boot, the Inquisition would grind to a halt on account of the entire membership being stuck in therapy,” He answered with a scowl, folding his arms. Blackwall looked down, locking his jaw. Cabot had a point. The line of work they were all in came prepackaged with emotional hurt, and with these troubles came the mighty need for a short term antidote. That in itself was the reason he was here, after all. 

“As true as that may be, Cabot, there won’t be an Inquisition at all if the bloody Inquisitor poisons her liver to death,” he muttered back evenly, giving the dwarf a pointed glare till he scoffed and walked off to the back room. 

The door shut with a click and a lock, leaving the room empty, save for Blackwall and the Inquisitor. The first thing he did was take the bottle away from her grip, which gave way with little resistance. He settled for discarding it with the mug, placing it behind the counter. The second thing he did was procure her a glass of water, gently forcing it into her hands and encouraging her to sit up. If Lavellan felt ill from having nothing but alcohol in her stomach, she did not show it. 

She sipped slowly at the water, life gradually starting in her eyes again as she tried to right her slanted world. 

“I’m sorry you’ve found me like this, Blackwall,” she whispered after she clutched the now empty mug in her hands. Taking the mug, he refilled it with a nearby pitcher and handed it back to her.

“I am not,” he replied in his baritone voice, meaning it thoroughly. “How long have you been destroying yourself like this?”

Lavellan clumsily tried to smooth her loose hairs back into place, though her motor skills were disparately slow. She seemed not to care, but eventually gave up and sighed, settling for rubbing her eyes. Her vallaslin crinkled with the force.

“Since they made me Inquisitor,” she answered matter of factly. “Twice a week since then, sometimes three on bad weeks.” Blackwall stared after her patiently, not offering a reply. For so long the world has demanded she say something about everything, for once he would let her speak about what she wished. Lavellan peered at him from her seat, resting her chin on her palm. Realizing he was opening up the floor to her, she started. 

It was startling for her that someone was actually giving her space to say something, anything at all that wasn’t a response, like a truth weighing deeply on her mind, which had buried down and sunken its spurs into her veins like a parasite. She sucked in her dry lower lip, chewing for a moment.

“It is not what you think it is,” Lavellan eventually offered, eyes cast down toward the counter, a finger tracing one of the tallies Cabot had carved. She lolled about for a moment, deep in thought. “I am happy to serve the Inquisition, grateful to be able to change so many lives. It is not the paperwork that follows me like the plague, nor the people who batter me with their questions. It is not the expectations Cassandra or my advisors have of me so much either.” She tapped the wood with a finger pad lightly, before turning to look at him. “It is the power,” she whispered, before looking away as if she were afraid of the word itself.

“You are afraid of falling to corruption?” Blackwall chanced carefully. In response, she paused in her tapping of the wood before resuming her tracings of it.

“In a sense,” she said softly. “I am afraid of who I kill with it.” Tears began to well up in her eyes at this, but she did not move to wipe them away or cover them. Lavellan was not afraid to show weakness, something Blackwall saw as one of her greatest strengths. It was a habit she had learned growing up in Dalish clans, where emotions are not frowned upon but embraced. It was a surprise that this struggle she faced was concealed with drinking and burrowing in the tavern. He frowned to himself. He supposed the humans had not influenced her well on that part. 

“You have no choice when it comes to the Venatori and Corypheus. They made the decision to attack you with all they had. They threaten you and all of Thedas,” he reminded her, though she gently shook her head.

“I have made peace with that, as much as I hate to do so. Life is so precious, and to be the judge of who lives and who dies, who is good and who is bad is to proclaim me a god on the pantheon. Unfortunately, I cannot look at it as anything but a necessity, or I will surely shrivel up for good,” she said with an empty smile. Lavellan twisted to face Blackwall at that, the burnt embers now shining dim light on her face. Thin streams of tears had fallen and they glistened, illuminated like a false glow. As ethereal as her Dalish lineage allowed her to be, she was so painfully human as well. Dried snot crusted around her nose from harsh tears and the skin under her eyes was rubbed so thin and raw. Her lips were dry and cracked with blood, how had he never noticed this in the daytime? She was worn.

“But Blackwall,” she picked up again, taking his hand in hers, seeking the comfort of a friend in her deepest moments of pain. “What I am most afraid of are the people I love most,” she uttered, her thin, spindly fingers gripping his gloved hand tight. “I am afraid that they would give their lives for me, that they would follow me to the ends of the Earth. Vivienne says our troops give their lives willingly but I cannot ask--” she choked out, and the tears came casting down with renewed vigor. 

And Blackwall sat.

He held her hands tightly in his, because this struggle, this fear was no stranger to him. Not nearly to the extent Lavellan was facing at the moment, but when you command any group of people, you are taking their lives like pieces in a game and gambling them away for gains. Being Thom Ranier, a Captain in the Orlesian army taught him that. And like a coward, he had run away. Instead of suffering over it and beating himself up he taught himself it was his right to use his men, that he had earned that power. 

Not like Lavellan.

Lavellan, who demanded nothing from the world, who once thought herself an ordinary elf who would’ve been content to wander the forests for days with her clan. She was thrust into this position, given the world and ordered to save it. She would be brave where he had been a coward, and he would see to it.

“You ask for nothing,” Blackwall said softly, laying a supportive hand on her forearm. She shook under his grip but began to still as she took deep breaths. 

“But they give me everything.”

Her tears flowed quietly now instead of roughly, but not once did they stop. It seemed there was months worth of pain begging to come out.

“Then you know what you must do,” he encouraged her. She looked up at him slowly now, the dimmest flicker of curiosity interest in those sad, tired eyes.

“What is that?” she chanced quietly, and Blackwall chewed his cheek and gave her a wry smile.

“You must earn it,” he said and watched as she looked down nervously, her tears splashing onto their joined hands. 

“What if I cannot?” she whispered, so quiet he almost didn’t hear her. He paused, letting her question hang in the air, not in hesitation, for he already knew the answer to her question long ago, when he had seen her for the very first time approaching him in the Hinterlands with determination burning in her dark eyes.

“You will.”

And like that, Blackwall found his rose, in an empty tavern, housed in a stoney fortress in a tempest, raging through the Frostback mountains. 


End file.
